


The Dying of the Light

by whatevvver



Category: Batman - All Media Types, Captain America - All Media Types, DCU, DCU (Comics), Marvel
Genre: Mentions of Steve/Bucky, and d.c., bucky is a better dad than bruce in this, make this happen marvel
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-04
Updated: 2017-07-02
Packaged: 2018-07-21 14:41:28
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 3
Words: 13,639
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7391290
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/whatevvver/pseuds/whatevvver
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Bucky meets Jason before, during, and after he is the Robin. Alternately, the Joker is the monster under Jason's bed and Bucky is the man that kills the monster.</p><p>[“you don’t go to school?”</p><p>jason shrugs and wolfs down the hot-dog in his hand. they’re squeezed in the back of a grimy restaurant, watching the local gotham gorillas play the new york yankees. </p><p>(bucky hadn’t remembered the gotham gorillas, either, but he’s starting to care less and less.)</p><p>“gotta work ‘cause mom can’t,” says jason. “can’t do that if i’m in school – ha! suck it, bucky,” he says smugly as the yankees hit a foul ball with zero strikes.</p><p>bucky makes a face and then starts humming frank sinatra’s “new york, new york.”]</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. I

**Author's Note:**

> this is part one of a three part story. the next part will hopefully come in two or three days. anyway, thank you for reading!!!

_do not go gentle into that good night,_

_old age should burn and rave at close of day;_

_rage, rage against the dying of the light._

* * *

 

the last memory he has before he dies is this: his best friend pressing his head against the metal freight train, face crumpling, his screams echoing with his as he falls into the mountains.

#

"m - my name is bucky," he says, blood in his mouth, in his hands, on the floor underneath him. it's not his blood.

"no," says the automated voice that never seems to leave him. "it is the winter soldier."

 #

one day the winter soldier opens his eyes and finds that it is not in a cryo tank. sunlight, it notices, and... dumpsters. the smell of urine, and wet mud, and fish oil. it licks its lips and tastes leftover salt and a remnant, a swirl, of despair.

the winter soldier knows despair. it knows its taste, and its smell, and its look – narrowed eyes, constricted pupils, and a whole lot of defeat. it knows despair is the last pit stop to defeat, because it has brought despair to those who are hydra’s enemies.

it wonders what it is doing here – in a place that, if anything, screams despair like a beeping signal on radar.

_a crowded room, and music playing in the background, and a radar signal, and people crowded around it, and soft blue eyes tinging on gray –_

the winter soldier flinches.

“leave ‘im alone!”

it whirls around, metal arm whirling, head blanking. ‘danger,’ a voice in the back of his mind says, ‘position possibly compromised; assess the situation, weapon –’

the winter soldier mentally scans through the last list of hydra operatives it had killed: it does not know their names, only their assigned numbers and faces. 1908 with the green eyes and loud sob as it had driven a piece of shrapnel into his throat. 1733 survived the bullet; the winter soldier had to squeeze her neck to get the job done. 913, his only real almost failure –

‘i said to leave him alone, you cock-sucking _sacks of shit_ –”

the winter soldier stops scanning. it has not heard that voice before.

it moves forward, deeper into the alley, arm held out. and then, like it had been trained to do, it assesses the situation:

a boy with bloodied fists and dark hair standing in front of a stray cat. his eyes are narrowed into slits – but they, they winter soldier knows, are not narrowed in despair – and his face is shadowed with an angry scowl. in front of him: three older boys, red-faced, grinning the same way the winter soldier’s handlers smile at him before the pain, thick-set, wearing grime-ridden clothes.

_a blond boy in the middle of an alley. he lies half-crumpled against the ground, bleeding, bleeding really badly, how is he not dying he’s lost so much blood. “go to hell,” he spits at the older boy in front of him, the one with a crooked smile and a hand gripping a knife._

bucky barnes winces.

 “what didya call us?”

bucky knows that tone. all bullies sound the same, doesn’t matter if you’re in the middle o’ brooklyn or in a nazi prison camp.

“a cocksucking sack of shit is what i called you or are you deaf now, too –”

the older boy, the bully, the one that had just spoken, lunges forward.

bucky doesn’t think. he never thinks. that’s what steve says.

(who is steve?)

he leaps forward. in two seconds one hand is gripping the bully. in three the bully is flying across the alley. in less than four he’s hit his head against the dumpster. in less than six bucky tackles the remaining bully, the lackey of the first bully, and pummels his fist into the other boy’s face.

sometimes, sometimes, it’s the person that looks but doesn’t do anything that bucky hates the most.

“hey, hey!” comes a yelp behind him.

bucky stops. he unfurls his hand, and blood trickles down to his palm. he thinks of bullets slicing skin, and the blood of a dead mother on a street, and feels suddenly nauseous.

the boy that reminds bucky of steve ( _who_ is steve?) pulls at his wrist, makes him take a step back. “he’s a sack of crap,” says the boy, “but the cops ain’t gonna care about that if they see you standin’ in front of his body.”

the older boy that bucky had just beaten groans on the floor.

“shut the fuck up, eric,” says the boy still holding onto bucky’s wrist. his grip on bucky’s wrist tightens sirens blare from behind them. “ _shit_.  shit, we gotta go.”

he releases bucky’s hand, and scoops up the stray cat in his arms, and dashes toward the street. bucky stares at him, bemused, uncertain what’s going on, not sure if the boy is leaving him behind or –

“ _c’mon_ , old man,” the boy hollers without turning around. “i ain’t breaking you out of jail if you get caught, so hurry up!”

_ _ _

“what is this place?”

the boy gives him an odd look. they’re sitting on a rooftop, the boy smoking a cigarette, and bucky can’t make out any of the buildings below him. he pulls the cigarette out of his mouth and says, “whadda you mean, what is this?” he waves a hand. “only one place can be as shitty as this city.”

“new york,” bucky tries although he knows this isn’t new york.

the boy snorts. “hell, nah,” he says, almost viciously, “even new york can’t beat gotham for trashiest place on the east coast.”

“new york isn’t trash,” bucky says even as he wonders why he’s never heard of gotham before. all he remembers is the prisoner of war camp, and that was in europe. maybe they messed him up in the head. made him forget everyday stuff.

(like who steve is.)

“you from new york, then? what the hell are you doin’ here?”

bucky stares at the glittering black city beneath him, full of skyscrapers he doesn’t know, and people the size of ants scurrying on sun-stained sidewalks. he smells baked asphalt and hotdogs and sewer water and people. if he closes his eyes, he could probably even pretend that he’s in manhattan.

“i don’t know,” bucky says honestly.

_ _ _

“jason.” bucky tries the name. it rolls off of his tongue as if he’s been saying it his entire life. “that’s a nice name.”

jason snorts. “my mom named me after her coke dealer,” he says casually. “guess she thought it was nice, too.”

bucky doesn’t know what to say to this. he’s not sure what coke is, but he figures it’s gotham’s term for a mary-jane. “i’m bucky,” says bucky instead. “don’t know much about drugs, but i used to smoke cigs in the trenches, if i could.”

jason’s eyes widen. for a second, his cynicism, his world-weariness, lifts and he looks like any other young boy. “you’re a soldier.”

“was.” bucky stares at the gotham skyline. “don’t know what i am now, though.”

_ _ _

“where you gonna sleep?” jason asks him. he tilts his head, his hands wrapped around his cat. “a motel?”

bucky shrugs. “i’ll figure something out.”

“you got family around here?”

“around here,” says bucky. he thinks he’ll travel to brooklyn. other than europe, that’s the only place he remembers. maybe looking at some familiar buildings will jog his memory, help him remember who his family and friends are.

jason nods slowly.

“well.” bucky offers jason a smile. “good night.”

jason doesn’t say anything.

bucky shrugs. it’s hard to tell with kids, sometimes – what they’re feeling, what they’re thinking. jason is especially hard. but if he doesn’t want to say goodbye, well, it’s not like bucky’s going to make him.

he turns around. brooklyn bound he is, then –

“wait,” jason blurts out. “wait, hold up, old man.”

bucky stills and then slowly pivots on his heel. “what’s the problem?” he says not unkindly.

several emotions flicker through jason’s face: disappointment, regret, uncertainty, and then, finally hope. “listen,” he says, scuffing his shoes on the ground, not exactly looking bucky in the eye, “i owe you. for helping me out at the alley.”

“don’t worry about it. it doesn’t matter.”

“it does,” jason counters. and okay, maybe it does. bucky grew up in the poorer part of brooklyn; he knows the need to pay off any debt you can, however you can. “i owe you…so.” he clears his throat. “so. you can stay at my place for the night, if you need to.”

at first, bucky wants to say no. is about to say no. but his mouth doesn’t open, and he thinks about how a night spent here won’t hurt him, and that maybe it’d be better to travel in daylight, anyway. besides. jason’s staring at the ground, shoulders stiffened, and bucky knows how hard this is for him: if you have nothing, offering someone something feels like offering your whole world.

“okay,” says bucky. “that…that would be good, yeah.”

the sudden smile that steals across jason’s face, sweet and unexpected as it is, makes him think _yeah, okay, made the right choice._

_ _ _

“dad’s in prison,” jason says like it’s nothing. “but mom likes doing crack in his room, so you probably just wanna sleep on the couch.”

bucky nods. “that’s fine.”

“there’s, uh, leftover food in the fridge if you need it, and –”

bucky picks up the tattered copy of _notes from the underground_ that had been lying on the sofa. “how old are you, kid?” he asks suddenly.

“i’m _not_ a kid.”

“okay, well, how old are you?”

“eleven,” jason says finally. “why –”

bucky waves notes from the underground. “you’re eleven and you read dostoevsky?”

jason’s face shadows. “what?” he sneers. “street rats can’t read?”

_angry blue eyes, and a twist of lips that should be smiling. bucky’s stomach sinks as he watches steve back away. “what?” steve shouts. “i got fuckin’ asthma so i can’t fight? just gotta stay home and draw all day? fuck you, bucky!”_

bucky blinks, disoriented. “no,” he says, and he’s not in jason’s apartment, but in a place in brooklyn, and he doesn’t know who he’s saying this to. “no, that’s not what i meant.”

“whatever,” jason says, and then bucky’s in jason’s apartment again. “i don’t care.”

it’s obvious that he cares, obvious in his clenched fists and whitened face and angry scowl. obvious in how he swallows hard, and how his chin trembles faintly. angry and hurt, just like steve had been.

(who. is. steve?)

bucky places the book back on the sofa. “i just meant,” he murmurs, “that i couldn’t have read this in twelfth-grade.” he shrugs. “you reading it at eleven…it’s impressive, is all.”

jason turns around, doesn’t say anything else, but his shoulders relax and his fingers uncurl.

_ _ _

one night turns into three turns into five turns into seven.

jason filches a toothbrush for him from a drug store. he mumbles “your breath’s starting to stink” to bucky, but his ears are red and he looks pleased when bucky accepts the gift.

_ _ _

“you don’t go to school?”

jason shrugs and wolfs down the hot-dog in his hand. they’re squeezed in the back of a grimy restaurant, watching the local gotham gorillas play the new york yankees.

(bucky hadn’t remembered the gotham gorillas, either, but he’s starting to care less and less.)

“gotta work ‘cause mom can’t,” says jason. “can’t do that if i’m in school – _ha!_ suck it, bucky,” he says smugly as the yankees hit a foul ball with zero strikes.

bucky makes a face and then starts humming frank sinatra’s “new york, new york.”

_ _ _

bucky gets a job by the docks. it stinks of fish guts and spilled oil, and reminds him too much of brooklyn not to get homesick, but it’s simple work and he’s used to it. more importantly, it pays a decent salary.

“where’d you get the money to buy that?” jason asks as bucky sets down the box of slightly-used textbooks.

“i seduced the book-shop owner,” bucky says seriously.

jason kicks him in the shin. “liar.”

bucky shakes his head slowly. “i am not,” he says, mock outraged. “besides, can you blame her? this face is hard to resist.”

jason stills, and then leans forward and peers at bucky’s face.  his brows furrow, and the sheer seriousness on his face is enough to make bucky laugh. “i don’t see anything worth resisting,” he says, pulling back, and bucky stops laughing.

“hey!” says bucky, and then he’s got one arm wrapped around jason, and he’s flipping jason over in the air. “ _rude_.”

“put me down,” jason says, but he’s laughing, actually laughing, and bucky’s heart warms at the sound of it.

“never,” says bucky.

and then he’s tickling jason, and the textbooks and the book-shop owner are long forgotten in favor of jason’s high-pitched laugh and his squeaky giggles.

_ _ _

jason refuses to accept any more of bucky’s money. bucky humors him, but secretly pays the rent, anyway, and tells jason that his job is shit and that he mostly goes to the harbor to look at the seagulls.

“that’s weird,” says jason.

bucky rolls his eyes. “says the kid that reads geology textbooks in his spare time.”

“that’s just ‘cause i finished the world history one,” says jason defensively. “and the astronomy one had half its pages missing – _hey_ , why are you laughing?”

“no reason,” says bucky, but he’s thinking _this is the only kid i’ve met in my entire life that actually likes reading old textbooks._

_ _ _

“what do you want to do?” bucky asks jason one night.

they’re lying on the same rooftop they had sat on the day bucky had met jason. it’s dark now, and there’s no stars in the sky, but the lights of the skyscrapers are like lanterns in the bleakness of the city. something within bucky aches then for the city that never sleeps, for brooklyn, for his home.

“whadda you mean what i want to do?”

“what’re your dreams?” bucky clarifies. “you know…if you could be anyone, do anything, what would you be? what would you do?”

bucky knows he sounds like a high school guidance counselor now, knows that these questions are heavy and carry a burden with them, but he also knows that no one has asked jason these questions before. no one asks street kids about their dreams, their hopes.

“i want to fly,” jason says suddenly. okay, that’s not the answer bucky’d been expecting, but he doesn’t say anything. “i’d fly away from gotham.”

“where would you go?”

silence for a few brief seconds and then jason says, “the north pole. i’ve always wanted to see the penguins.”

bucky snorts. just when he thinks he’s figured this kid out, jason always surprises him. “penguins, huh.” he ruffles jason’s hair and grins when jason lets him. “well maybe you and me can take a trip down there sometime.”

it’s a vague fantasy, an impossible promise, but jason adds quickly, “and my mom.”

“yeah,” bucky says. he feels indescribable fondness as he looks down at the kid beside him. “and your mom, too.”

0

bucky wakes up one day and he’s not on jason’s living room couch.

he’s strapped to a metal table and a man with cold gray eyes presses the tip of a scalpel against his chest.


	2. II

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> sorry guys

o

they shove him in the crypto-tank. he sees black and feels cold creep into his soul; they shut the door and trap him in the middle of hell.

  
#

_mud in your shoes, mud in your fingernails. the smell of scorched flesh. the taste of cigarette ashes in your mouth –_

 

_surprise, curdling in your stomach. a red-white-and-blue shield. hands cupping yours face. blue eyes that look like the sky back in brooklyn. “bucky.”_

 

_the dying of a fire. a hand pressed next to yours, large and warm, covered in scars and callouses. still has skinny, pink-tipped fingers, though, this brooklyn boy of yours._

 

_“i’m with you, always.”_

 

_“till the end of the line,” you whisper in the middle of the night. you press a kiss on a stubbly cheek. fear drips in your spine along with something else, something white-hot and slow._

 

_falling –_

_falling –_

_fall_ –

  
#

“how long had the portal been open?”

“as long as he had been in that tank.”

“should we – should we inform hydra –”

“no, you fool, no! this must be kept secret, unless you can replicate it, you damned –”

they stop, and electricity floods its brain.

  
#

“you are the winter soldier.”

“no,” he rasps.

“try again,” the white-haired man in front of him says.

  
#

“what is your name?”

he thinks of blue eyes and black nights. “b – bucky –”

“wrong answer.”

  
#

it takes five guards holding machine guns to shove him in the crypto again.

he screams, screams, screams when they close the door.

  
#

_green eyes with blue on the edges. a mop of black hair and an angry, tight frown. “shit,” he says. “we gotta go.”_

 

_a crooked smile, one that breaks his face half-open and fills it with light. eyes gleaming with childish delight._

 

 _scribbled geography textbooks and grimy windows. a preening cat on an army-green, holey couch, and the smell of poverty. “i want you to go to school.”_  
_a scowl, and then, “what the hell’s it to you, old man?”_

 

_a small hand clutched tightly in yours, ruddy even in the moonlight, and fragile; it feels like holding a baby bird in your hand. “don’t leave,” he says, voice small, face turned away, and something blossoms within you like a seed that has finally pushed its way past the dirt. “i won’t,” you promise._

  
#

  
“what is your name?”

“b – bu –”

“try again.”

  
#

_flashes of blue eyes that turn green, bloodied knuckles and penicillin, ripped textbooks and greasy fries, white dust on a sofa, a drunk mother petting her child’s hair, a different mother lying on a hospital bed, blond hair, black hair, brooklyn,_

_brooklyn,_

_and steve,_

_and the gothamn gorillas,_

_and_

_your son_

  
#

  
“what is your name?”

“steve,” he says. it is the only name he remembers.

a short laugh, and then, “not quite.”

  
#

  
before they take him to the crypto, he asks quietly, “then who am i?”

a small glint of a smile, and then: “the winter soldier, my dear monster.”

  
#

  
they do not take him to the crypto.

they take him to the electric chair.

  
#

  
“what is your name?”

he has forgotten. he says nothing.

his white-haired handler hums. “remember soon, winter soldier.”

  
#

  
“what is your name?”

his eyes dull.

“do you want to go back to the chair?”

“no,” he rasps.

“what is your name, then?”

“t – the,” the words crawl out of his throat, “w – winter soldier.”

  
#

  
they take him to the chair, anyway.

“gotta shock the human out of him,” one of his handler’s assistants says cheerfully. “right, doc?”

  
#

it still remembers green eyes. a toothy smile. and a green sofa.

for that, the winter soldier is briefly, terribly glad.

  
#

  
“you reckon there was a wormhole in that crypto?”

“the soldier was gone, fool, gone. it was in there one second and out the next. what the hell else could it be?”

“i…i don’t know…”

“then shut up.” a click of tin, and the smell of freshly chewed tobacco.

“should we…not put hi – it – in there?”

the sound of a slap. “use your goddamned brain! we don’t put it back in there, they’re gonna ask some questions we can’t answer.”

a meek, soft reply. “o – okay.”

  
#  
one day, the winter soldier wakes up and sees a sky.

it sees half-crumbled skyscrapers; the skeletal remains of burned houses; glass towers soaring into the sky.

 _a mission_ , the winter soldier thinks. _this is a mission_. _it must be a mission_.

it has been on these kinds of missions before. eventually, its handler’s voice will ping in its ear. its handler will say ‘kill him’ or ‘kill her’ and it will do its task.

the winter soldier inhales.

it sits on the edge of the rooftop, looks out at the half-dying, half-living city and waits.  
_ _ _

the winter soldier waits approximately 5 hours, 34 minutes, and 56.45 seconds before its mission arrives.

its mission arrives in a black cape and a black cowl. he is heavily built, approximately 95.45 kilograms, and slightly taller than the winter soldier. its mission surveys the roof and takes a step in the winter soldier’s direction.

the winter soldier smiles grimly.

this might be difficult. maybe.

“c’mon, batman!” a boyish voice, fourteen years old maybe, crows. “we gotta go catch criminals.”

“robin,” growls the winter soldier’s mission. “we have to be patient –”

“yeah, yeah, _whatever_.”

the boy steps forward.

he wears a neon-green, yellow, and red costume along with his own mask. he’s skinny and wiry, but there’s muscle in his legs and shoulders. and a grin on his face. “patience isn’t gonna catch the riddler, br - _batman_.”

“yes, it will.” the mission bares his teeth at the child. “stay in formation and keep your cool.”

the boy rolls his shoulders. “yeah, sure. are we gonna break in through the windows or –”

“there’s a roof entrance on the right. guard it.”

a pause, and then: “oh, come _on_ –”

“i said guard it.” the man’s voice is cold. “don’t think i brought you back easily, robin. you’re still on parole.”

“batman –”

the mission pivots on his heel and walks to the edge of the roof.

“ _batman_ –”

a flick of his wrist, and the mission, batman, shoots a wire at the opposite building. one second later, he has disappeared into the night.

the boy balls his hands into fists. “shit.”

the winter soldier waits 4.52 seconds. then it stands up and presses its hand on its gun.  
_ _ _

the boy stomps his foot on the ground theatrically before spinning around again and jumping off of the roof.

blinking, the winter soldier peers down the roof, and sees the boy using his own metal lines to leap through busy passerby. he’s sloppy, brushing against brick walls and bumping into irritated civilians, but his whoops echo through the streets.

the winter soldier pushes its back gun into the holster.  
_ _ _

an abandoned shoe polish factory.

that’s where the boy has finally ended up, that’s where the winter soldier’s mission is.

exhaling, the winter soldier examines the dilapidated building: the left wing is nothing but rubble while the northern wing’s interior – charred wooden frames and a mass of wires – is barely standing. the entire building reeks of charcoal, smoke, and leftover trash.

the boy examines it, too, more hurriedly than the winter soldier, before cursing and peeling his mask off. “dead end,” he mutters. “god- _fucking_ -dammit.”

yes, the winter soldier decides. this is definitely one of hydra’s challenges.

“bruce’s gonna have a fucking aneurysm, god-fucking –”

the winter soldier steps forward. a rock scrapes underneath its heel.

the boy whirls around, eyes widening, and grabs his mask. his fingers shake and the winter soldier sees a pair of green eyes –

“bucky,” the boy whispers.

the winter soldier stills.

the boy’s hands slip to his side and the mask falls to the ground. his eyes, face, are completely uncovered as he steps, practically leaps, forward. “ _bucky_ ,” he yells, not noticing the winter soldier’s stiffened shoulders or its metal arm.

the winter soldier’s machinery starts failing. that’s the only reason, can be the only reason, that it, a weapon, stays still as the boy flings on top of it and wraps his arms around its waist.

“where _were_ you?”

“russia,” the winter soldier says without thinking. “pоссия. lukia. pусија.”

the boy loosens his grip and looks up. “you speak macedonian, bucky?”

“sometimes.” it feels dizzy, sweaty. it wonders when the handler will come and take it back to the crypto tank again.

“cool.” the boy flashes him another toothy grin. “bru – my, uh, d – dad’s butler taught me some words.”

the winter soldier does not say anything.

“некој ќе ми донесе,” says the boy. [someone adopted me]

“кои?” [who]

“uh.” the boy looks down at his uniform. “можам да ви кажам.” [i can’t tell you]  
_ _ _

“what happened to your arm?”

the winter soldier glances at its metal arm. it feels dizzy again, like it is teetering on the edge of falling off of a cliff.

“is it a prosthetic?”

it nods.

“did you go back to the military?”

_complete your assignment, winter soldier._

the winter soldier swallows. “yes.”  
_ _ _

  
the night passes slowly. the winter soldier stares at the street, and thinks of 52 escape plans while the boy drones on about his life with the batman. the boy mentions his favorite food, greasy diner french fries, and the winter soldier finds 12 spots it can set its sniper in. the boy talks about his history homework, and the winter soldier itches to clean its gun.

“why’d you leave, bucky?”

sweat drips down its forehead. the winter soldier weathers through the heat, and opens its mouth.

the boy cannot meet his eyes. “i thought you were gonna stay.”

weapons don’t stay. weapons go where their handlers need them to go. it shrugs.

“you said you were gonna stay.” there’s an undercurrent of anger; the winter soldier reads it and thinks of the electric chair. “you – you _promised_.”

still, it says nothing.

the boy laughs suddenly. the sound is harsh against the lazy heat of the night. “it’s fine.” his grin is a line carved by scalpel into his face. “it’s cool. after you left, i – i met my, my father, anyway.”

“your father,” the winter soldier repeats despite itself.

“yeah.” the boy nods his head vigorously. still angry, but his eyes shine when he says, “he… he’s a billionaire, he took me in and helped me, and, and now i go to school and –”

the winter soldier tips his head back and stares at the sky. there aren’t any stars, just rolling gray swirls of clouds and ashy puffs of pollution.

“– i live in a mansion with a butler now. that’s crazy, huh?”  
_ _ _

the boy leaves. “i gotta go to school tomorrow,” he says.

the winter soldier lies on the roof and cleans its gun.  
_ _ _

“i have patrol after this,” the boy says the next day. “so i can’t stay long.”

the winter soldier shrugs.

determinedly ignoring his lack of response, the boy flops beside him, until their legs are touching. “where did you sleep last night?”

the winter soldier says nothing.

“i…my old apartment is nearby here, y’know.” the boy’s voice is quiet. “you could stay there if you want.”  
_ _ _

“you didn’t go to my apartment,” the boy says two days later.

the winter soldier shakes its head.  
_ _ _

“go to my apartment,” says the boy. “the key’s underneath the door mat.” he rubs the back of his neck. “but don’t – don’t touch mom’s stuff.”

the winter soldier notices his slumped shoulders, his glassy gaze. “what…happened,” it rasps. _it’s for the mission. don’t send me back to crypto; it’s just for the mission_.

tilting his head back, the boy gives him a look, a look of hope and hurt, a look that makes the winter soldier dizzy again. “she died.”

bullets, and blood, and screaming. the winter soldier knows death. it has brought death. and yet, the boy’s words cut it open, as if it is back on the metal table and dr. stolivsko is digging into its chest with a rusty knife again.

“oh,” says the winter soldier.  
_ _ _

“i’m going to paris tomorrow.” the boy sounds smug. “i’m gonna sleep in one of those rich-ass hilton hotels, bucky.”

“i thought…patrol,” the winter soldier manages to say.

“superman’s covering our asses.” that toothy, crooked grin again. “it took batman for – fucking - _ever_ to ask him, though.”

the winter soldier says quickly, “rivalry?”

rivalries are good. the winter soldier can exploit rivalries.

“yeah, somethin’ like that.” the grin widens. “if you ask me, though, superman could beat batman’s ass _any_ day of the week.”  
_ _ _

the winter soldier traces batman’s location to the bruce manor later that night. it sees acres of perfect lawn and marble pillars. it spots a red-and-blue figure flying leisurely over the house. the winter soldier slips back into the shadows.

superman is not the deity it is meant to destroy.  
_ _ _

the front door is broken. moss and grime cover the front steps, and the winter soldier spots a patch of blood on the shattered window. it identifies the lingering, faint smells as cocaine and heroin.

this is, was, the boy’s home.

the winter soldier steps into the apartment.  
_ _ _

it goes through each room methodically:

the bathroom’s toilet is broken and clogged; the mirror smeared in makeup and dust. there is no nourishment of any kind in the kitchen, except for an expired can of lima beans; the two bedrooms are minuscule and covered in soiled shirts.

the winter soldier exhales and steps into the living room. there’s only this room left, then, for clues about its mission. it’s unlikely, but it’s possible. the winter soldier is nothing if not meticulous in its approach.

cracked windows, a dirty carpet, a pile of ripped textbooks, and – and –

a green sofa.

_curled up on the sofa, watching him peer over the chinese history encyclopedia, his black hair brushing the page he’s so concentrated on the qing dynasty article he’s reading –_

“i am the winter soldier. i am the winter soldier. i am –”

_“bucky, i thought livin’ here was shit, but there’s this one emperor – from the qing era, actually, i think – who fuckin’ buried these scholars. bucky, that’s crazy,” he says, eyes wide as he pulls back from the book._

“winter soldier. winter soldier, зимний солдат –” [winter soldier]

_he’s reading pride and prejudice now, fingers white as he clutches the book like a lifeline, like he’s a drowning and the book is the rope that’s going to pull him out._

“вы оружие, оружие.” the winter soldier is on its knees now. “оружие, оружие!” [you are a weapon, weapon, weapon]

_his head is on your shoulder now, his hair brushing your cheek, and his thin, spindly fingers are clutched in yours. he smells like ink and fries and asphalt. you brush his hair away from his eyes, pull the blanket closer on top of him; you think of everything, but mostly you think of the lightness in your chest and the peace in jason’s –_

the winter soldier’s voice dies in the back of its throat.

batman’s sidekick. robin. the boy. jason.

jason.

 _jason_.  
_ _ _

the winter soldier waits near the docks for jason to come back to gotham.  
_ _ _

jason comes back two days later, fresh-faced, bright-eyed, and grinning cockily because the cute french girl in the bar winked at him.

“i’m tellin’ you, bucky,” jason says seriously, “i’m like a snake charmer.”

“the girls…are snakes?”

“no.” jason rolls his eyes. “ _everyone_ is the snakes in the metaphor, bucky.”

the winter soldier’s lips quirk up. it feels strange; stiff. “even the boys?”

“everyone,” jason repeats.

“did you.” the winter soldier’s head hurts. it had forgotten how difficult it is to talk. “you know. did you –"

“no.” jason’s shoulders deflate. he kicks a pebble. “batman said i was ‘too young’ and took me outta the bar.”

“oh.”

silence for a few moments. “you ever dance with a french girl, bucky?”

the winter soldier feels another splitting headache. “no.”

jason bumps his shoulder. “me neither,” he says grouchily, “and all cause of batman, too.”  
_ _ _

“i went to…apartment.” they’re still sitting on the dock piers. “it was.” it struggles to think of the word. “it was.”

“sad. yeah, i know.”

“no,” it says. “no i meant. it helped me.” it taps its head. “remember.”

“what’d you remember?”

“pride and prejudice. the qing dynasty. blankets. i also remembered.” the winter soldier pauses. “i remembered…”

“spit it out, old man.” jason grins crookedly at him. “can’t just not tell me now.”

“you,” it says. “i remembered you.”  
_ _ _

the sunset is just like the rest of gotham: violent in its intensity, almost blocked by rolling smoke clouds, large and looming, transforming the sky into hues of scarlet as day falls into night. they stare at the sunset from their spot in the docks, and then, very quietly, very quickly, almost as if he’s scared, jason says, “i never even forgot about you.”

_ _ _

the winter soldier goes back to the apartment. it thinks, _this was jason’s home_ , _once_ , and goes through the broken front entrance until it is in the living room. then it climbs on the sofa, curls its legs underneath itself, and closes its eyes.  
_ _ _

the winter soldier meets jason at the docks the next day. and the day after. and the day after and the day after –  
_ _ _

“i tried saving her.” jason does not look at the winter soldier. he looks at the deep, infinitesimally black lake and says, “mom still died, though.”  
_ _ _

_the winter soldier slams its fist against the woman’s face. there is a thump, a crack, and blood pours out of her head like oil spilling out of hydra’s machines: fast and slick and dark._

_pieces of her brain splatter out of her skull along with shattered bone._

_the winter soldier exhales. it removes its hand from the dead woman and stares. blood drips down its palms, encircles its wrists._

_the blood smells like warm metal._

_“excellent work, winter soldier. report back to the base,” an automated voice says in its ear._

_the winter soldier inhales. it wipes its metal hand against its leg. “yes, sir –”_

_“h – help.”_

_the winter soldier pauses. its eyes flicker to the dead woman slumped against the side of the car. its eyes widen fractionally._

_there is no woman lying beside the car…just, just a boy with scruffy blond hair and scraped knees. his eyes are angular, rimmed red, and bruises cover his eyelids in webs of purple and magenta. blood seeps from his fair hair, from his hands, from his throat, from his mouth as he flops to the ground and reaches with an unfurled hand for the winter soldier._

_the winter soldier freezes._

_the boy’s face morphs until his hair is black, his skin tan, and his eyes green. jason’s body crumples against itself like a ball of paper. his knees are bent at 90 degree angles, and his green, red, and yellow suit is ripped._

_jason claws across the ground, until he is inches away from the winter soldier. “save me,” jason pleads, tears streaming down his cheeks, chin trembling, “save me – b- bucky, please – please, bucky –”_  
_ _ _

the winter soldier wakes up with a gasp. it peels the blanket off of itself, head aching, and hobbles off of the sofa.

a glass of lead-filled tap water later it cannot remember what it dreamed about.  
_ _ _

“did i.” the winter soldier’s voice dries. “did i ever…hurt you?”

“what?” jason’s brow furrows and his voice rises. “no. _no_. of course you fucking didn’t, bucky!”

the winter soldier thinks of the gun hydra gave it. it thinks of the dream it cannot remember. it thinks of the sunset and of jason’s crooked, toothy grin. it thinks of the fact that hydra has not yet found it.

“i…i have a hard time remembering.”

jason’s face clears. “oh,” he says. “it’s cause of the war, ain’t it?”

yes, there was a war. there are many wars. the winter soldier nods.

bumping his shoulder, jason says, “don’t worry about it, bucky. i’ll help you remember.”  
_ _ _

“my favorite color?” it asks.

“pink.”

“food?”

“hotdogs and apple pie. you’re a fucking stereotype, is what you are.”

the winter soldier’s lips quirk. it does that a lot these days. “am i from here?”

“you?” jason’s lips curl upward into a smug smile. “a gothamite? _hell_ no.” his sneer warms into a grin. “you’re from new york.”

“new york,” repeats the winter soldier. “did…i like it?”

jason snorts. “yeah, that’s all you ever used to talk about.” his brow wrinkles. “that, and…”

“and.”

“and you mentioned a guy named steve once.” shrugging, jason says, “didn’t mention it a second time, though.”  
_ _ _

steve.

the winter soldier goes to sleep with the name rolling in its mouth.

 _steve_ , _steve_ , _steve_.  
_ _ _

the next day, jason isn’t there.  
_ _ _

he’s not there the day after, either.  
_ _ _

the winter soldier disarms all the trap alarms in the wayne manor and climbs on top of the sprawling roof. sugary adrenaline races in its blood and fear crawls in the pit of its stomach. it’s hydra. hydra –

hydra has found out about the winter soldier’s unforgivable fondness for the boy. they have taken him away, or are about to take him away, and the winter soldier cannot, will not, allow that.

its memory fogs as it always does these days. it thinks of brooklyn and of gotham, and of green-eyes, and of blond hair, and it thinks it will die from it, from all of these non-memories.

the winter soldier closes its eyes.

it opens them and it sees a teenage boy wearing a red hoodie lying on the roof. slumped shoulders, bent head. jason.

the winter soldier’s eyes burn. it thinks, they have not found him, and it thinks thank god and it thinks i will not let them find him i will not kill him i will not do it i will not i will –

“fucking bruce.” jason’s voice is loud and brazen in the air.

the winter soldier’s lips quirk, a dead weight sets in its heart, and it slips off of the roof and out of the bruce manor.  
_ _ _

logically, the winter soldier knows that jason has been grounded by his legal guardian, bruce wayne. logically, it also knows that hydra will find it and anyone associated with it. logically, it knows it has to leave gotham before hydra does that.

so, with one lingering glance at the dirty, polluted city, the winter soldier packs a canteen of water and leaves for brooklyn, new york.  
_ _ _

the winter soldier sits on the sidewalk in the middle of brooklyn and watches as the city seeps out of its non-sleep. rusty cars streak though the streets, mothers hang damp clothes on lines between apartments, and children shriek as they play hopscotch with tiny, crumbled pieces of chalk.

it thinks that jason would like it here.  
_ _ _

“do you need help, young man?” a woman with a faint white mustache and dark eyes peers down at the winter soldier.

the winter soldier says nothing.

“well, if you do,” she says, “i have a church around the corner. you’re always welcome to spend a night there.”  
_ _ _

her name is clara. she is in love with a bookshop owner named josephina. she has three cats, an iguana, and no record on the internet except for an amazon account. clara locks the doors in her apartment, but keeps the windows open and her valuables lined in her sofa.

the winter soldier finishes its investigation two days later and decides that clara van donnell is not a threat. it knocks on the small church door two weeks later, thinking that maybe hydra will not find it inside of a church.

pastor clara opens the door. she does not look surprised to see it standing in front of her; instead, her eyes wrinkle as she smiles. “i just finished making dinner. will soup do?”

“yes,” says the winter soldier.

clara’s smile widens. “wonderful,” she says. “come inside, uh –”

the winter soldier says nothing.

“i’m sorry,” clara says, her smile not wavering. “what’s your name, young man?”

“bucky,” the winter soldier says.

“well, come inside, bucky.”  
_ _ _

the winter soldier examines the room. potted plants and herbs decorate every square inch of the kitchen, and a preening, fat tabby sleeps on the dusty windowsill. it smells of ginger, garlic, and old linen.

“it’s a bit old,” clara says. “my sister-in-law keeps telling me to move out, but well…i’ve gotten a bit sentimental in my old age.” she laughs. “at least the cats like it here.”

“i…i…like it, too.” the words are clumsy, inadequate. the winter soldier doesn’t know why it feels relieved for saying them.

clara beams.

the winter soldier, for some reason, feels like it has passed a test.  
_ _ _

the winter soldier doesn’t ever stop fearing, or awaiting, hydra’s return. it knows, without a shadow of a doubt, that eventually it will have to leave brooklyn and clara and her three cats. and yet, as each day passes and its handler doesn’t return or call him, the winter soldier’s shoulders relax, little by little.  
_ _ _

“have you visited gotham, bucky?”

the winter soldier nods. they have just gotten back from a sermon – it has taken to sitting quietly in the last pew every sermon – and the winter soldier feels exhausted for some unfathomable reason. maybe…maybe it needs to be upgraded, replaced. it cringes.

“was it really that bad?” clara asks him, misreading his flinch. “i went once, but the joker blew up the hotel i was staying in and i hightailed it back to brooklyn.”

“it was. okay.”

clara wrinkles her nose. “maybe,” she says doubtfully, “but i wouldn’t go back now.”

“why?”

“joker’s out of arkham again.” clara _tsk_ ed. “i don’t know why the batman doesn’t just kill him and stop all that madness, but well. what do i know?”

“the joker?”

“oh, yeah, you know. crazy clown guy. maybe there’s a news broadcast on it.” clara yawns and rubs her eyes. “well, this old lady is off to bed. goodnight, dear.”  
_ _ _

the winter soldier spends all night watching the news. there’s nothing important in them, just the same information repeated a thousand times over, but occasionally, there’s a video clip of batman and robin. in one clip, batman and robin investigate arkham’s broken defenses; at the last second, robin turns around and faces the camera.

jason’s identity is hidden behind the mask, but the winter soldier analyzes all the details in his body language regardless. the tightness of his jaw, the hardness in his eyes, the jutting veins in his neck. jason is angry. jason is hurt.

the winter soldier is to blame.  
_ _ _

once, hydra’s operatives had taught the winter soldier how to write in 12 different languages: english, mandarin, portuguese, macedonian, french, urdu, sindhi, russian, maithili, fulasi, arabic, and kongo. weapons needed to be able to communicate, they said. in any continent, in any country. so they had taught the winter soldier, and now, the winter soldier uses what they taught it to write a letter it will never send.

_20:30 EST_

_jason,_

_do not be angry anymore._

_your friend, bucky, is not really me. “i” am the nightmare russian parents tell their children to make them behave. “i” am the winter soldier and the winter soldier is a weapon, jason. that is all it will ever be._

_a weapon is not worth your anger._

the winter soldier pauses. it feels strangely heavy and light at the same time; a feather soon to land on the ground, a rock sinking in a lake. everything and nothing all at once.

_stay safe._

_\- the winter soldier_.  
_ _ _

summer slides into fall. fall slides into winter.

the winter soldier remains in brooklyn.  
_ _ _

and then, the day comes.

when the winter soldier remembers.  
_ _ _

“he’s dead,” says clara. tears stream down her wrinkled cheeks. “oh, that darling boy is dead, bucky. i just…i can’t believe it.”

“who?”

clara sniffles. there is grief in her eyes, kindness in the tremble of her hands. she is an old lady, who has witnessed death countless of times, and here she is, weighed down by another one. “bruce wayne’s adopted son,” she says. “he came here once, ages ago, with his father, when he was still a little thing. i remember it. he held out his hand, and said, ‘ma’am my name’s jason todd –”

 _no_ , the winter soldier thinks. _no_.

 _no no no no no no no_ –  
_ _ _

he’s hanging off of a train.

the ground is –

   far

      far

         far  
_ _ _

the grave is freshly dug.  
_ _ _

  
steve calls out _bucky_ , _bucky no_

                   and he’s

                                fall

                                   fall

                                      falling  
_ _ _

the winter soldier, bucky, the winter soldier, bucky, the winter soldier – no, _bucky_ – runs his hands over the upturned soil and thinks _no_ , _not you_ , _no_ , _no_ , _how could_ , _no_  
_ _ _

the ground is

                              near

                                  near

                                       _nea_ –  
_ _ _

_Beloved son,_

_Jason Todd_

and he’s not in this cemetery anymore, he’s on the train again, falling and no one’s catching him, and it’s all over, it’s all gone, nothing under his feet but a sharp drop, and it says Jason Todd it says Jason Todd it says Jason Todd oh god oh god oh god oh oh

 

 

 

0

they find him again, and when they do, when bucky barnes returns to his real world, he does not protest when they lock him in cryo, when they put him back in the electric chair, when they lay his broken body on the operating table.

he has fallen.

(it is over. it is over.)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ha ha sorry for the LONG delay (i was v busy with, you know, life) but hopefully the next part will be posted sooner than later (no promises though.) also, the ending was kind of (????) rushed but i didn't want to spend another 2K on bucky's adventures with clara regardless of the amount of love i hold in my heart for that OC.
> 
> also. bucky & jason have a father/son kind of relationship here so, even though i haven't had problems with this, just in case: this is not a shipping fic. it's more like a rlly long character analysis. 
> 
> anyway. peace out girl scouts.


	3. III

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Some endings are beginnings.

_grave men, near death, who see with blinding sight_  
_blind eyes could blaze like meteors and be gay,_  
_rage, rage against the dying of the light._

* * *

 

years pass. bucky barnes becomes the winter soldier becomes the demon and the devil and the monster under the bed. years pass, and he remembers soil underneath his fingernails and a name on a gravestone. this is all he has, all that keeps him from becoming an it once more.

#

“bucky,” he says and he’s crying. captain america, the winter soldier’s mission, is crying. “bucky, please—”

“there is no bucky,” the winter soldier snarls. he pulls the trigger.

#

please –

 _please_ –

he opens his mouth, tries to say these words. he chokes on his own spit.

#

when his eyes fall shut, he dreams of falling,

                                                                            falling,

                                                                                        falling.

#

before the surgeries, the electric chairs, the guns and bullets and death, the winter soldier had fallen. a half-winged bird. a modern icarus.

#

when he awakens, he tastes blood, salty-sweet, in his mouth; he smells pine and snow and ash.

#

he is a broken mirror. his memories are glass shards he can’t glue together. in his hands, they cut through calloused skin, until he bleeds with it, with what he does not remember:

captain america. a grave stone. and a name – a name he has forgotten –

#

“james!” yells steve rogers on the rooftop of one of vienna’s infamous orchestra houses. “your name is _james buchanan barnes_!”

“shut up.” he clicks the trigger.

#

captain america refuses to fight him. “i’m not doing it, bucky.” his eyes are cornflower blue, as endless and light-filled as the day sky. “i’m with you ‘til the end of the line, remember?”

_i’m with you ‘til the end of the line._

something within the winter soldier snaps. his glass-shard memories crumble to dust. he is raw, open, bleeding on this hangar.

_i’m with you ‘til the end of the line._

he is on a train, hanging on with his fingernails; he is beside a campfire, lying beside a man he loves; he is on a sidewalk on brooklyn, brawling with a bully.

everywhere and nowhere, all at once.

#

he starts remembering.

his metallic hand starts _feeling_.

#

and yet, he still forgets. someone. a name on a gravestone.

(whose name?)

#

maybe the name is another forgotten relic of his past. maybe, it is preserved here, in this ritzy gallery in manhattan. maybe, maybe, maybe.

the winter soldier adjusts his two-dollar store baseball cap to hide his eyes, zips his ragged sweatshirt to conceal his metal arm, and steps inside the country’s most famous museum.

he trails through the halls. most of…of, well, everything concerns captain america: five of his hand drawn comics are on display, along with a dizzying array of stained shirts, scuffed shoes, and black-and-white photographs from the ‘50s. still, he learns about his past self (past? or present? he’s not sure), too. he was friends with rogers’. best friends –

“although,” and here, the tour guide’s voice drops into a conspiratorial whisper, “the late biographer, naeun song, has claimed their ‘friendship’ often traversed the line into romance.”

the winter soldier’s hands curl into fists, then loosen again.

#

it is lonely in budapest. the city’s history, its sweet-tinged nostalgia, enshroud the winter soldier like mourning veils. (he is the corpse.)  even sound doesn’t travel; it lingers, like church bells after a funeral.

(the city is still waiting to catch its breath after the war.)

two weeks. it’s been two weeks after the museum, three weeks after the winter soldier saved captain america’s life on the hangar.

and here the winter soldier is, in budapest, tasting melancholy every time he swallows.

he wonders who will find him first: captain america or hydra.

#

it is captain america.

#

“i can help you. please, let me help you.”

_i don’t need help._

steve continues, his voice anguished, “bucky, _please_ – i – i –” he gulps for air “i need you, bucky. please.”

the winter soldier thinks everything and nothing: of the campfire, and of the train, and of the museum exhibit. he leans toward his once-sworn enemy and tentatively presses a finger against steve roger’s neck.

he could kill him.

he pulls the finger away.

he won’t.

“i want the truth.” his voice is hoarse. “tell me what happened to me.”

#

steve tells him everything.

it is enough. it is not enough.

understanding, steve says, “there is somewhere else…”

#

the winter soldier kneels in front of a gravestone. the epitaph is too weathered to be legible, but he knows, without a shadow of doubt, that his mother lies underneath the sun-beaten dirt.

it is here, in this moment, in this graveyard, that bucky barnes is replanted inside of him.

#

and yet, this is not the grave with the forgotten name.

“what is it?” steve asks.

he stares bleakly at the cemetery. “i don’t know.”

#

steve shows him a map of the east coast.

he stares at it for five hours and memorizes every city and small town from bethlehem to ithaca. he cannot help but think that there should be another city south of new york.

#

“i’m forgetting something,” he tells steve one day. it’s been three months since he began his rehabilitation, and there is a nagging feel in the pit of his stomach.

“take it one day at a time, bucky. you’ll remember.”

#

“was… was i ever…”

“spit it out, buck. you know i’ll tell.”

he swallows. “was i ever a father?”

steve’s brows knit. “no – i – i don’t think so, why?”

“no reason,” he says. the ache in his chest has not yet disappeared.

steve is quiet for a long, long time. then, “i don’t think you were, because…”

“because i was too in love with you...i...i know.”

#

“i can ask bruce to run some tests,” says steve two days later. “he’s got this new gizmo that’ll let him…i don’t know what, exactly, but it’ll answer your question better than i did –”

“can you ask him to analyze the crypto?”

he doesn’t know why he says what he says, but surprisingly, the anxiety clawing his insides open tames a little.

“i…okay, of course.”

thankfully, steve doesn’t ask any questions. he’s always been good like that.

#

“i found residues of this black dust in the crypto.” bruce banner speaks calmly, but there’s a trace of excitement in his eyes. “the dust is foreign to the planet, but it is oddly reminiscent to –”

“can you,” he fiddles with the collar, doesn’t look banner in the eye, “try to fix the crypto?”

“i can try,” banner says cautiously, “but do you have a reason for this?”

“j - just a hunch.”

“ i -well.” the scientist’s voice is kind. “many ‘hunches’ have led to scientific breakthroughs, so certainly, james. i’ll try.”

#

he tries.

he succeeds.

#

“are you sure?” steve’s eyes, so unadulterated in their hue and intensity, are softened with concern.

“yes.”

“okay.”

but steve does not let go of his hand.

“steve.”

steve’s lips tremble for the briefest of seconds.

“this is not like last time.” the words hurt. he hurts. “let go.”

“bucky.” his name is a plea, a prayer on steve’s lips. “i – i –”

 _i am sorry,_ he thinks, for them both. “let go, steve.”

taking a shuddering, heavy breath, steve loosens his grip on bucky’s hand. “if anything happens, i’m going to pull you out right away.”

the faintest of smiles. “’course you will, rogers.”

then, he steps into the reassembled tank. the pain wriggles underneath his skin; but it is an old visitor, and he swallows it whole. another life awaits him; another chance at figuring out who, exactly, james buchanan barnes is.

“come back,” says steve from behind him.

he murmurs, “’course i will, rogers.”

and then, he submerges into the darkness, once more.

#

the sky greets him. violently gray, but with splatters of eye-watering canary, it is an enigma that forcefully jogs his memory.

“gotham.”

the city cannot speak, but he knows he guessed right. this is gotham, the missing jewel of the east-coast, the absent twin of new york city. this is what he thought should have been on the map.

it’s not home, not in the way brooklyn is. and yet, as he slips through alleys and gutters, sidestepping mud and the occasional puddle, he feels like he’s visiting an old friend.

“gravestone,” he murmurs underneath his breath. he hopes the city will listen to his only clue. “gravestone, _gravestone_ –”

_ _ _

– he remembers the grave clearly.

it is carved of white marble, and shaped into an episcopalian cross. a carefully sculpted angel kneels on top of it. her eyes are half closed; her hand brushes the stone. the grass around the upturned dirt is carefully cut, and white lilies, red chrysanthemums, and marmalade gardenias surround the mound like a halo.

– the only thing he cannot remember is the person who lies underneath it.

_ _ _

he spends the rest of the evening combing through the cemeteries in gotham.

he finds nothing.

_ _ _

and nothing –

and –

_ _ _

– here he is, on hallowed ground.

on ground sprinkled with cocaine, smiley face LSD squares, and dried blood. a mélange of all that is sacred in crime alley.

he – not the winter soldier, not bucky barnes – wanders through cracked sidewalks, ramshackle row-homes, and rusty motorcycles. his metal arm twitches. maybe it remembers, maybe it does not and he is going senile for thinking it is.

there are too many maybes, too many what ifs.

“hurry up, old man!”

a red-haired boy shoves past him. his eyes are narrowed into slits, his teeth bared into a shadowy semblance of a scowl.

_blue eyes so teal they look green, dark hair, eleven maybe, standing in front of a cat, fists raised, hands covered in calluses and cuts and cigarette ash. scowling. dry eyes._

he exhales – no, gasps. his lungs shake.

 _him_ , he thinks, and he does not remember the boy’s name. but…but he knows. knows, without any maybes, without any what ifs, that the teal-eyed boy is buried beneath that cross.

_ _ _

two days in crime alley.

then three,

then four,

then five, six, seven –

_ _ _

on the eighth day, he sees a man raise a bat on a cowering child. in broad daylight.

something within him snaps, like a cut string.

he doesn’t remember what happens next. he only knows he smells of blood for the rest of the day.

_ _ _

one man killed.

then two,

then three,

then four, five, six –

_ _ _

– and somewhere amongst the blood, spilled bits of brain, and bleach, he realizes that the winter soldier will never leave him. bucky barnes is planted somewhere inside of him, but the winter soldier is the soil in which it lies: the foundation, the poison, for everything.

for the first time since steve rogers brought him home, he cries.

_ _ _

(in brooklyn, he learned the sweet tenderness of first love, the taste of cold root beer floats in summer afternoons, the forever warmth of a forever friend. all the good parts of him, of who he once was, are found somewhere there.

in russia, he learned pain, the kind that lingers in your marrow. he learned the smell of viscera, the sound of squished flesh. the taste of despair. the devil made a devil, and then that devil made another one.

in gotham, he learns redemption treading down an empty street on a cold, rainy night. it is a gasped prayer in dusk. praying to a god you’re not sure exists for a name you can’t seem to remember. tell me, save me, please.)

_ _ _

gotham listens to his plea two minutes past sunrise.

its answer is a gun to the back of his head. a raspy, timber voice hiding the traces of a child long forgotten. “what the hell are you doing here, _bucky_?”

_ _ _

he turns around. when he sees those green (sometimes blue) eyes, he remembers the name. “jason.”

except this is not jason the orphan reading about chinese dynasties, not jason the robin leaping over roofs and domes. this jason is –

“you grew up,” he says. the hurt doesn’t leave. will it ever?

“no shit.” jason’s words burn like ice. “what the fuck are you doing back in gotham?”

“trying to remember.”

jason’s eyes narrow. “remember in brooklyn.”

“i already tried brooklyn.”

his nostrils flare. “get out of crime alley, bucky.”

“i’m not bucky.”

“i don’t care if you’re the goddamned pope.” the gun reappears, this time held to his forehead. “leave.”

“jason –”

“ _leave_.”

he grabs the gun. cradles it gently. “no.”

jason leans in. this close; he can see the fear in jason’s eyes. that, at least, is the same. “don’t make me shoot you.”

“you can,” he says. it is the truth. “i won’t hate you if you do.”

he’d probably thank him.

“shut up.” jason’s voice is hoarse.

he smiles. hadn’t he once said that to steve? “no.”

jason’s hand is still on the trigger. “how many people did you kill?” he asks suddenly.

“seven.” his voice is soft not out of regret but of a deep, unfathomable sadness.

jason swears.

“are you angry?”

“no – i – _fuck_ , how come batman hasn’t caught you?”

“i don’t get caught,” he says. not unless he wants to be.

jason’s lips tremble for the briefest of seconds.

“jason...what happened?” _to you_ ? _to me_?

his lips stop trembling. the gun falls. “none of your fucking concern –”

“it is, please, just tell me –”

“one night,” jason snarls, “one fucking night before i take you out myself.”

and then, before he can say anything else, jason slips away, surprisingly shadow-like for his heavy build. he watches jason leave, his heart thudding painfully in his chest.

_ _ _

jason, the boy underneath that cross. jason, dead. and yet, here jason was, alive.

_ _ _

he doesn’t leave gotham.

he kills the eighth man, a rapist-murderer, and waits for jason on the edge of the roof.

as expected, jason arrives a few minutes before two, when the city is enshrouded in dark, save for a few skyscraper lights.

“what _the fuck_?”

“i am sorry.” he is. he isn’t.

jason swallows. hard. but his eyes are still cold. “who?”

so he tells jason. he tells him about the murderer-rapist, the child-beater, the wife-abuser, and on and on and on. when he is done speaking, he closes his mouth and eyes jason. the boy - no, man - does not say anything. instead, a small, tight, angry smile appears on his face.

“jason,” he says softly. like a benediction.

jason’s eyes unglaze. he laughs, brittle, choked. “were you trying to impress me?”

“no.”

“then _why_ ,” and here, the rage seeps out of his voice, “the hell did you do it?”

 _because i am a monster. because all i know how to do is kill. because…_ “they hurt people. innocent people.”

“so what?” his eyes are challenging. “you gonna take ‘em all out? that it?”

“any...any i come across.”

(would steve be ashamed of him? for saying that? for being willing to do it?)

jason’s eyes skirt away from his gaze and toward gotham’s skyline. his jaw trembles. and then, as suddenly as the flash of lightening in the darkening sky, it steadies.

“are you going to shoot me?”

“no,” jason says. his fingers still slip into his holster.

“oh.”

jason inhales sharply. “you got a safehouse?”

“no.”

“find one.” he spits on the rooftop. “batman’s out for blood. so are the crime lords.”

he shrugs. he’s not scared of criminals, and he doesn’t care enough about his half-life to fear batman.

“you’re not scared?”

he shakes his head.

for a second, he thinks jason will leave. will jump off of the roof and disappear into the night. will leave him behind in the rain and in blood-stained clothes. instead, he sighs, long and heavy.

“follow me,” says jason.

_ _ _

the first thing he notices in jason’s safehouse is the yellowing book on the side table. _the untold truth of the qing dynasty._

something within him loosens, bubbles to the surface. he wants to sob. instead, he laughs.

_ _ _

the first night, jason doesn’t speak to him.

_ _ _

the second night, he says, “you got a toothbrush or not?”

he says he doesn’t.

jason sighs, then rolls over.

_ _ _

the third night, he asks jason for his full name.

jason snorts. “jason peter todd. why?”

_ _ _

the fourth night, he doesn’t tail jason across the city. instead, he slips into the wayne manor’s grounds. he doesn’t have much time before the security systems reboot, before the batman notices his presence. but he doesn’t need more than a minute to tread to the wayne family cemetery. doesn’t need more than thirty seconds to drop to his knees beside the cross. doesn’t need more than a second to pray.

_ _ _

slowly, as he presses his head against the tomb and baptizes the  grave with his tears, he remembers: five, all dangling feet, bucked teeth, flush against his mother in the synagogue; his first taste of wine at sabbath; his mother humming the nishmat under her breath.

his first, sweetest taste of god.

in russia...in russia, there was a god, too, but he was cruel, that god, cruel like a sunny day in winter, cruel like dreams in prison. cruel in a way that made you beg for forgiveness like a sinner in hell.

here, in the place where jason once lay, there are both. there are none. there are all.

_ _ _

“where were you?”

he shrugs.

jason snorts, but does not press the point.

_ _ _

“your breath stinks,” jason grumbles the next morning.

he is not insulted. “steve used to say that, too.”

“who the fuck is steve?” despite himself, jason leans forward, elbows digging into table. “you always mentioned him.”

“he is my…” friend? best friend? lover? enemy? “my...i don’t know.”

jason’s brow wrinkles. “the fuck does that mean?”

“he was my friend, once. and then...and then i tried killing him.”

incredulous, brow wrinkling, jason says, “in the war?”

“yes.” he recalls the exhibit. “no.”

“what the hell are you - ”

“i was his partner in one war,” he says quietly, “and his enemy in the next.”

jason’s mouth twists. “and now?”

“now, i am neither.”

_ _ _

ten nights later - he keeps count, because numbers are repetitive, numbers keep the devils at bay - they move into another safe house. jason doesn’t ask him to come, but doesn’t protest when he follows.

so, he follows.

and follows.

and follows.

and, for some reason, jason lets him.

_ _ _

the fifteenth night, he finds a toothbrush on his mattress.

_ _ _

“thank you,” he says.

“‘s nothin’.” jason’s street accent is thicker, warmer when he is half-asleep. “didn’t cost me nothin’.”

“you stole it?”

“maybe.”

“yes?”

“yes,” jason accedes. “now go brush your damn teeth, bucky, i swear to god--”

_ _ _

eventually, the air around them settles. they kill together, the spilled blood a violent  testament to their newfound bond. it is not the simple friendship they once shared, but the same intensity lingers, the same - the same _love_.

(because that’s the only word for it: love.)

_ _ _

the twentieth night, he awakes screaming.

he had dreamt of the electric chair.

_ _ _

the next five nights, jason has to pin him down to the bed to stop him from punching a hole in the wall. jason’s  heartbeat - _thudthudthud_ \- is organized cacophony that brings him back from russia, from the ropes that tied his wrist, from the acid they injected into his body. he is alive. he is alive. he is alive.

_ _ _

“what did they do to you?” jason blurts out.

_ _ _

he says later, “they hurt me.”

jason holds him a bit tighter that night.

_ _ _

the night after the nightmare, they are perched on the edge of a roof. it is an hour before dusk, and gotham had finally fallen asleep, cloaked in an illusion of peace. this is the time when time doesn’t exist, when the truth does not create chains.

he says softly, “steve was my childhood friend. he became captain america.”

_ _ _

dusk arrives.

jason does not tell him he is lying. does not question his reality. he looks troubled - lips pulled into a tight frown, eyebags dark and prominent under his eyes - but he offers his hand.

jason’s palm is dry, cracked; but his heartbeat is the same _thudthudthud._

_ _ _

“do you still love him? steve?”

he thinks about steve’s friendly smile. his cool, calloused hands. his brows knitting when he’s confused. his voice, achingly familiar, screaming _james buchanan barnes!_ he thinks about budapest, about brooklyn, about all that was once his. mostly though, he thinks of steve leading him to his mother’s grave, knowing without having to be told that that was what he needed above all else.

“yes,” he says.

“will you go back - to him?” jason’s voice does not crack, but it is not completely steady.

he swallows. “i...have to.”

“when?”

“i don’t know. not...not yet.”

jason does not ask him to stay longer. instead, he says, “before you leave, i need your help.”

“i’ll do it.”

“i didn’t even tell you what it was.”

he shrugs. “don’t need to know.”

jason grins unexpectedly. it is as bright as the sun. “you said you were a sniper.”

“yeah.”

“can you snipe from a prison roof?”

“yes.” he hesitates. “who?”

_ _ _

_who?_

_was that person the one who hurt you, jason?_

_is this what i’m not remembering?_

_can you please tell me?_

_ _ _

jason doesn’t tell him.

it stings.

_ _ _

still, he follows jason to the arkham asylum.

there is not much else to say about this part. it is noon. the sun is hot. the winter soldier is not seen until he climbs on top of the roof. until he positions his sniper at the target.

_ _ _

he pulls the trigger.

_ _ _

the bullet flies.

the bullet falls.

_ _ _

the bullet lands.

_ _ _

the prison guards yell. someone screams.

someone laughs.

_ _ _

jason’s laughter turns into sobs.

and though the winter soldier does not understand why, he collects jason into his arms, anyway.

_ _ _

“we gotta leave,” says jason blearily. his voice is hoarse from crying. “batman’s gonna be on our tail.”

“where do you want to go?”

jason shrugs. “thought you could show me new york, maybe.”

_ _ _

somehow, they end up in brooklyn. somehow, they end up in front of a small, cramped church. the winter soldier’s chest _thudsthudsthuds_ , as he steps inside, jason in tow.

it is like stepping inside of a dream. hazy. blurred around the edges. quiet, like he’s underwater. and yet, for all of the emotion that it brings, there is nothing spectacular about this place: rows of shabby pews, zero glass stained windows, a peeling beige carpet. it smells of stray cats, old encyclopedia pages, and sunflower seeds. a strange, if not welcoming, melange.

“what _is_ this place?” jason asks dubiously.

“i...i am not sure.”

“well,” jason drawls, “if this is _all_ brooklyn has, i gotta tell you, bucky, it ain’t -”

“hello!” a voice croons. “are you here for mass?”

simultaneously, jason and he turns toward the voice. an old woman hobbles toward them. she has white, fluffy hair and a thin, pale mustache. the winter soldier’s stomach churns; he does not know why.

“sorry, sweethearts, i was in the kitchen and didn’t hear the bell ring -” her eyes widen “ - oh my _lord._ ”

 _clara van donnell_ , he thinks suddenly and irrevocably. 

“oh, my darling boy, is that you?” her hand stretches toward the winter soldier.

he holds her hand carefully.

her eyes fill with tears. “i missed you.”

“and i, you,” he says. it is not untrue. he had not remembered her, but he does, somehow, in his own way, crave her company.

she gives him a watery smile. “you brought a friend?”

“yes.”

“what’s your name, young man?”

jason hesitates. “jonathan. jonathan...barnes.”

_ _ _

jason says later that night, when they’re supposed to be asleep in one of clara’s spare rooms, “you can leave now...if, if you want.”

“i can’t.” he thinks of steve and bruce banner. are they still waiting for him? “i...i can’t leave this place on my own.”

jason’s brow wrinkles. “i don’t understand.”

he shrugs. “neither do i.”

staring at him intently, jason murmurs, “so...you...you didn’t leave on purpose?”

“not the first time.”

“what about the second, then?” jason’s voice is strained.

“the second?”

“before i died.” jason pauses. “before...when, when i was thirteen. the time after you came back.”

he only remembers snippets of that time. soil underneath his nails. rooftop conversations. the sun setting. “i don’t know. i don’t think i wanted to leave.”

“then why did you?”

why does he ever? “probably because i was scared they were going to hurt you.”

it is quiet for a long, long time. “who?”

“hydra.” he shuffles deeper into his quilts, as if he can burrow away from the past. he should know better. there is no hiding.

“who the fuck is hydra?”

when he speaks, his voice is muffled. “bad. bad people.”

“were they the ones that hurt you?” jason asks, voice rising. “in russia?”

a pause that stretches on and on. finally, “yes.”

and then, it is quiet and jason has nothing left to say.

_ _ _

“do you know the name of the person - the monster - i asked you to kill?” jason asks in the morning. “did i ever tell you?”

“no,” bucky says, confused. “you didn’t.”

“his name was jack. don’t know his last name.”

brooklyn is still noisy even in the morning. the winter soldier - no, bucky barnes; no, someone else - watches as cars whiz by the two of them. clara had made them coffee, and he sips it now, enjoying the bitterness of the drink.

(in brooklyn, it is easy to believe in second chances. it is easy to believe that the future won’t be all bad.)

“why?”

“why what?”

he turns. he looks jason in the eye. “why did you ask me to kill him?”

jason toys with his empty mug.

“jason?”

he sets the mug on the steps. “let me tell you a story, bucky.”

he cocks his head. “okay.”

jason inhales. “once upon a fucking time, jack’s a comedian. ‘cept he’s a shit comedian. no one goes to his shows, he doesn’t have any fucking money, _and_ his wife is pregnant.”

“i don’t understand.”

“just...let me finish.”

he nods.

jason continues. “our guy jack decides to work for a gang to make a quick buck. during the job, he falls into this tub of - i don’t fucking know what, but it’s not important. the important thing is the stuff  mutates him.”

his eyebrows furrow. “and?”

jason sneers. he is angry now. his face is pale, his teeth are bared, and the idyllic beauty of brooklyn is long forgotten. “and he decides the world _owes_ him shit. that it owes him a _laugh_ for fucking him over.” jason’s breathing becomes ragged. “so he becomes the red hood who becomes the joker who -”

(the devil made a devil and that devil made another one.)

“- starts killing people. for fun! for a _fucking laugh!_ ”

“jason,” he says softly. “breathe.”

jason doesn’t listen to him. “so one day, for a joke, he lures batman’s protege into this cabin. the cabin’s rigged with explosives. only - only this stupid, imbecile of a kid doesn’t know that, because he’s fucking thirteen! because he wanted to save his mother!”

he grasps jason’s hand. he knows. he knows now.

“and you wanna know the fucking punchline? the joker’s there! jack is _there_ ! in that cabin! and he has a fucking crowbar, right? because he didn’t just want to kill this stupid kid. no, he wanted to _have fun_ doing it.”

his chest constricts. he wishes he didn’t know.

“so - so he starts beating the shit out of this s - s - stupid kid,” and now jason’s crying, his voice shaking, “and this entire fucking time, the kid starts thinking, ‘the batman’s gonna come. he’s gonna save me.’ but the kid doesn’t get s - s - saved.”

he grips jason’s hand tighter. with his other arm, he brings jason closer to him, until jason’s head is in the crook of his neck. it is uncomfortable, this position. the winter soldier does not hug. does not touch. but right now, he is neither bucky barnes nor the winter soldier; he is a man; he is a man who fell. he is a man who didn’t get saved.

 _i know,_ he wants to say. _i know your pain, i know it so badly -_

“and then the kid starts t - t - thinking about...about someone else. not bruce. not batman. he was t - this soldier, s - said he was from brooklyn -”

his heart freezes.

“ - used to buy him these shitty ass textbooks, and work in the fucking docks, used to smell like shit _all day_ . and then, one day,  he just fucking left! he left, and then he came back, and then he left _again!_ w - without a fucking warning, without a fucking ‘see you later, jason, i l - love you.’”

_i am sorry i am sorry i am sorry i am -_

“ - and this kid don’t even believe in god! but he starts f - fucking praying that the soldier’s gonna come again, that he’s gonna untie him and hug him and apologize for not coming sooner, but the soldier doesn’t because the soldier _left_.”

“i’m sorry,” he murmurs in jason’s hair.

jason takes a deep, shuddering breath. tears continue dripping down his face.

“you saved me.” jason must know this. it is imperative that he knows this. “when i was in russia, they tried brainwashing me. they almost stole me from me again.” he clutches jason tighter. “but i remembered you. and you...your memory kept me sane.”

“fuck you.”

“i love you.” the words slip out of his mouth without warning.

“ _fuck you_ , bucky.”

he knows what jason is really saying; and he cradles jason’s face in his hands. the seed that steve and his mother planted inside of him starts blooming. “you are my son. you...i’ve always...you’ve always been my son.”

jason spits out, without any real venom,“‘m supposed to call you dad, then?”

he laughs, despite everything. “no, ‘course not.”

“good. didn’t work out the first time i tried it.”

“maybe,” he broaches tentatively, remembering steve’s steady reassurances, “it will. in the future.”

“you gonna be there?”

“what?”

“you gonna be there in the future?”

he wants to say yes. god knows he wants to say yes. but that is not the truth, and he will never lie to jason, to his son. never. “this is not my home. i have to return to my world.”

a look of anguish crosses jason’s face. it breaks his false-wrath in two. “what if i need you?”

he thinks of the crypto. “i can return...i _will_ return.”

“when?”

he swallows. “i don’t know. i - i can’t control time.”

“soon?” jason presses.

“soon,” he says. it is not a promise. it is a prayer.

jason pulls away from him. “whatever.”

“i’ll miss you,” bucky says for the both of them. (is he bucky now? maybe. _maybe_.)

jason’s smile does not quite reach his eyes, but it is a start, at least. it is a beginning. “you - you have to meet my family. when you come back...my brothers - they’ll want to talk to you.”

“of course.”

“and…”

“and?”

“one day, i wanna meet steve.” he bites his lip, looks conflicted, as if he can’t decide to be enraged or not. “but...he does sound kind of like a pansy, y’know.”

he laughs. “you’re not _wrong_.”

“didn’t think so.”

“you’d like him. kind of reminds me of you.”

“yeah?”

“yeah.”

“huh.” jason’s tears - and his rage - have dried, but his voice still hiccups. “guess...guess that can’t be a bad thing.”

“no,” he says, “it isn’t.”

_ _ _

they stay at clara’s church. she seems delighted by their company, constantly brewing a pot of coffee for them or bringing them takeout from the local indian restaurant. soon, their days pass lounged in front of her kitchen table, devouring naan and chicken samosas. occasionally, the cats will jump on their laps and meow for bits of food.

_ _ _

sometimes, jason will demand they fight crime, or protect the innocent, or seek justice. bucky humors him. when clara sleeps, they sneak out into the city, jumping through rooftops and slipping past shadowy alleys.

under their watchful eye, brooklyn sleeps a little quieter, a little more peacefully.

_ _ _

another day passes and he thanks god for letting him stay.

another day passes and he wishes he were back home.

_ _ _

jason understands. “the sooner you leave, the sooner you’ll come back.”

_ _ _

“will you go back to gotham when i leave?”

“yeah.” jason exhales. “got a lot of shit to figure out with bruce, still.”

“and your brothers?”

jason thinks about it. “they’re easier to deal with, but...guess so, yeah.”

“what are they like?”

so, jason spends the next evening dutifully and meticulously complaining about each sibling. dick is an idiot, tim is a replacement, damian is a headache, stephanie troll tweets him, whatever that means, cassandra can kick his ass, which is annoying, and duke would be okay except he hates the gotham gorillas, and _don’t_ get him started on harper -

_ _ _

“i love you, too,” jason blurts out one night. they’re perched on top of a roof; the stars aren’t out, because it’s cloudy; it smells of pollution and the naan they had bought. “i didn’t get a chance to say it before, but…” he scratches his head, looks embarrassed. “i don’t know if you’re gonna be here tomorrow, and i figured, fuck it, i better tell you, just in case.”

_ _ _

(this is what healing is: it is saying i did not deserve what happened to me, but it happened and i will not let it consume me anymore, because i want love in my life again, i want love and light and i want to sit on those cracked steps with my son and drink coffee, and i will have that, i will have that no matter what, because the past is not my present and it won’t be my future.)

_ _ _

(in jason’s brooklyn, he starts healing.)

 

 

0

and then, one day, he wakes up and sees steve’s face again.

#

(see, the thing bucky learned all those years ago, when he first fell off of the train, was this: all endings are beginnings. this story does not _end_ when bucky barnes wakes up in the crypto; it begins. and in this story, bucky barnes falls in love with steve rogers. in this story, jason todd is no longer a memory: he is a reality. because bucky goes back to gotham, again and again, fulfilling his promise to his son; and, in turn, jason visits new york to meets steve rogers, who promptly crushes him in a bone-shattering, albeit loving, hug.

in this story, both boys, father and son, heal.

in this story, there is no bittersweet ending, only promising beginnings.

because icarus fell, but swam in the ocean; because the devil made a devil, but who said bucky barnes was the devil? because sometimes, god is kind. because sometimes, hope is a feather that floats in the light. because sometimes, you live.)

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is it, guys! Sorry for the delay in getting this written. It took me forever to figure out how to end it on a note that I liked. Hopefully you like it, too, lol.
> 
> If there is any confusion regarding this story, feel free to ask any questions :)
> 
> And thank you so much for reading!


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